The Season of Giving
by pro-prodigy
Summary: A pair of Christmas themed stories, meant to melt the heart and make you believe in that impossible thing called love. Holmes/Watson slash
1. Everything in Perfect Order

Sometimes everything in the universe aligns just so and magic happens.

There was just enough bourbon in the eggnog.

And there was a sprig of mistletoe placed in just the right spot.

Watson was just drunk enough and Holmes happened to be just enough to the left so that they simply_ had_ to kiss.

Sometimes when everything is right in the world, magic happens...love happens.

And sometimes, a man will pour in twice the recommended amount of alcohol in the eggnog and another man will shift all the furniture around so that there's no choice but to stand in a specific spot in the room.

Love really doesn't happen by magic.

But it's a miracle all the same.


	2. Gifts

Five golden rings.

Bugger the song. One golden ring was enough. More than enough when it shined like the brightest silver. White gold. Rare, exceptional, stunning--all the things Watson professed to equate with me. It fit perfectly. Like Watson himself, it seemed to fit perfectly on my naked skin.

"When I had found it, I had thought--I was sure you were to announce your impending marriage."

Watson kissed me, hands anchoring on either side of my face and tongue finding safe harbor in my mouth. "That's what you get for trying to cheat before Christmas, you silly ass."

"But why? I can't wear it, not in the way you intended."

I loved Watson and I loved what he offered me, but i would not be Sherlock Holmes if my brain spoke in equal parts with my heart.

"I wanted to--" Watson closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against me as his normally exceptional words failed him. "Sometimes a promise needs more than words. I just--"

"Never mind, dear fellow," I said, silencing the rest of his words with another kiss because sometimes no words were required at all. I ended the kiss and peppered the strong jawline with a smattering of kissing, ending with a not so gentle nip on his ear lobe. "Isn't kneeling a traditional gesture during such occasions?"

Watson obliged and although I wore no garter, he still accomplished quite skillfully with what I did wear. There is something indescribably sensual about feeling your belt slide from out of your trousers knowing that talented tongue that had removed the clever clasp was about to be applied elsewhere with equal skill.

Watson moved down the length of my cock with agonizing slowness and when he reached the end that very same tongue darted out to flick at my tightening sack. Both my hands flew towards his head to keep him there, the shine of my new wedding band contrasting with the semi-dark hair. The sun of India had never fully left it.

He refused to move because he knew it would drive me mad and soon I surrendered all semblance of control to John Watson and began thrusting wildly into the wet heat of his mouth. He hummed his approval and his assurance that he was fine with my actions. One particularly frenzied thrust led to a distinct change in embouchure, precluding to the formation of a smile, difficult to miss with such deliciously close proximity. The smug bastard. I knew it pleased him to reduce me to this.

It physically pained me to push him off of me, especially when he stole one more parting lick to the tip of my cock to retrieve an even mixture of his own saliva and my preseminal fluid.

He read the need in my eyes and smiled, his green-blue-brown eyes (they change when he smiles a certain way, when the sky is a certain color, during sex, after sex, and always right before it) glinting merrily at me as he strode across the room, casually stripping and resuming his kneeling position along the seat of his armchair, knees braced against the upholstered arms and bent ever so slightly with his arms clutching the wings.

I joined him immediately, but only nestled myself between his halves. I know my limits and it ended and started with John Watson and God knows I wanted to draw out the moment for as long as humanly possible.

I bent down and began to whisper raggedly into the warm and naked back. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...to join together this man and this other man, which is commended to be among...some men and therefore, is not be any," at this juncture I nearly had to choke out the word as Watson rubbed up against me with a distinct air of impatience, but I carried on because if Sherlock Holmes knows anything, it is how to use a man to his just deserts, "to be entered unadvised or lightly...but reverently, discretely," I purred this because after today I knew this ring would remained in a locked drawer forever more, "advisedly and solemnly. This occasion marks the celebration of love and commitment with which these two people begin their life together." I can be forgiven for skipping a few lines. I'm only a man, a fact that was becoming more and more painfully obvious. I'm also distinctly not religious, a fact rather obvious to who exactly I was intending to join with. "And now--through me--I joins us in one of the holiest bonds."

With that, I gently, reverently slid my cock into his more than ready entrance. His back arched, but his hips remained firmly in place, keeping us together as one for the duration of several minutes before I slid out until I had fully left him and sheathed myself a second time into his glorious heat. The air around me was becoming so hot and cloying, I felt like Watson was surrounding me on all sides, all the time and everywhere. My rhythm was nearly nonexistent, but recognizable in its innateness.

Watson was moaning, fingers scraping along the upholstery, fevered brow leaving marks upon the back. The muscles along his thighs rippled, maybe as much as my own as I continued to thrust inside him. My hand dipped down to take his own weeping need and he cried out at the sudden stimulation.

"God, Sherlock, the ring," he gasped breathlessly as the coolness of the ring against my hot hand contrasting alongside its unrelenting hardness and the softness of my palm.

"Will you marry me, Watson?" I asked, probably bellowed as I got close to my peak.

Watson cried out as he came, his essence covering my hand, a rivulet traveling over the golden silver band, and I followed after him.

Our legs shook and I withdrew and sat on the ground, cradling Watson in my lap as he slid out of the chair, mindful of staining the armchair with the liberal evidence of our coupling.

He kissed me and settled his forehead atop my shoulder. "I do, Sherlock. I bought the ring because I do even if you can never wear it."

But I did wear it. For three years I wore it, to tell all I was a kept man and to assure my keeper that I remained one when I returned.


End file.
